


They call me a non-believer

by elementary



Series: Team Free Dorito and the apocalypse [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover Pairings, Gen, M/M, Multi, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, Team Free Dorito
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/elementary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 4 canon divergence with more Cap and Bucky.</p><p>The apocalypse is upon them and Dean is nowhere near ready to deal all the burdens that come with being the Righteous Man.</p><p>That's why they came back for him, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/gifts).



> Title from Epik High's Amor Fati. Sequel to "Road Trip" and "Because we don't always cry for help".
> 
> The beginning of something not too epic! My creativity doesn't extend to majestic storylines or anything, so what comes out is what you see. I am so thankful for all the readers who have decided that this series is something worth your attention and time, and every comment has made me happy. I will continue to do my best!
> 
>  **WARNING:** This story has a 'Graphic Depictions of Violence' tag, and it starts in this very chapter. Can't have hell flashbacks without a glimpse of what really went on down there (according to my headcanon), right? If you'd prefer not to read anything too graphic or gory, **please skip the first big paragraph of the italics section**.

Even bound and chained inside a devil’s trap on the other side of a steel door, Alastair strikes a whole new level of fear and hatred inside of Dean. It roils deep inside him, something dark and terrible, something he wishes never saw the daylight again. He turns away from the sight.

“Take me back,” he demands.

Uriel sighs, exasperation clear. “Your task is not yet complete.”

“Dean, we would not ask this of you if it were not absolutely necessary,” Castiel says earnestly.

He knows. Dean knows and that’s why he can’t just pretend that none of this concerns him like he truly wants to. Because Dean steps in and helps when someone needs him. But...

“You mind giving us some privacy, chuckles?” he says, keeping his eyes on Castiel. He can feel Uriel’s gaze on the side of his head, but the douchebag leaves without another word.

“Seems like you’re not in charge anymore, Cas,” Dean says instead of the pleas that want to come out.

The eyes of the angel are still conflicted, but Castiel’s form relaxes minutely as he stares unwaveringly at Dean.

“My superiors were concerned about my... sympathies towards you,” he finally admits with reluctance. “In order that my focus remains on the mission, I have been ordered to stand back.”

If anyone had told Dean that he would make acquaintances with an angel, call him by a nickname and look to him for support as the world is coming to an end, he might have shot the person on principle. 

_Don’t make me do this, Cas_ , he wants to say.

As if Castiel read his mind, his eyes become sad. Sympathies, indeed.

Dean barks out a bitter laugh. “Cas, you know what you found when you went down into the pit. I’m going to become that _thing_ again and it ain’t going to be pretty.” He barely suppresses the urge to cover his face and scream. “I walk through that door, I’ll be coming out worse than ever.”

Even as he says this, he’s sickened by the desire he feels for the blood he is about to spill. Oh, he had enjoyed it. Alastair had made sure of that. He almost doesn’t notice his fingers twitch beside him; at that, he turns away from the angel lest the anticipation or agony shows on his face.

“I will be here waiting for you. You will still be Dean Winchester when this is over,” Castiel says with the kind of conviction that Dean does not have, and unfortunately it doesn’t make up for what he’s lacking. There are no words to reply with.

As Dean glances at the door, he can feel his heart grow cold and a darkness fill his mind, his face devoid of emotions.

He breathes, grabs the handle of the cart filled with equipment appropriate for what he is about to do. 

When the door closes behind him, he feels like he’ll never be able to leave again.

 

\- - - - -

 

_In the beginning, it was all physical._

_Layers of skin and muscle peeled off until there was nothing left but bones, organs in a dripping pile on the ground because they were no longer supported. An eyeball gouged out of its socket every half hour. Skull cracked open so that the brain was left exposed to drilling and countless screws that later acted as conductors to wave after wave of electric currents. On better days, Alastair would only pull out each nail and toenail slowly before stabbing them into his gums._

_Some years later, his dad was listing all the ways he had failed their family, destroyed it beyond repair. Killed himself in front of Dean’s eyes because he could no longer handle the disappointment his firstborn was. Sam wondered at the gall Dean had to come searching for him when he finally had freedom, get his girlfriend killed and make his life miserable. His eyes then turned yellow and he thanked Dean for leading him down the path to hell._

_His mom asked why he had left her alone in that burning house._

_After that, it was an unpredictable mixture of everything, that even the whiplash it gave him from the change of pace and scene was torture in itself._

_And the few years before he broke, Dean was alone. Not a speck of light or dust or blood to keep him company. Bound thoroughly so he couldn't hug himself. Couldn't hear anything, not even his own_ breathing _._

_When Alastair had been present, the years had seemed like centuries. This deprivation felt like an eternity._

_Dean had cried, the tears on his face the only point of contact he had during that time. Dean had been still, silent because no amount of noise had made a difference in the vast darkness, as if lost in space._

_So alone that a chasm formed where his heart had once been. Grew and swallowed every inch of his being. His very soul._

_He never wanted to go back to that._

_In the end, he said yes._

 

\- - - - -

 

His grip on the cart tightens because he can’t have his hands shaking, not in front of Alastair who looks at him with dead eyes.

“This isn’t going to get personal, is it?” he drawls, voice sliding over Dean like a web trapping him. “Because you know, I only wanted the best for you.”

Dean’s voice is surprisingly steady, flat even, when he finally opens his mouth. “Shut up, Alastair.”

“Now, now, is that any way to treat your closest companion of the last few decades?”

The way he casually brings up the worst times in Dean’s life makes his stomach roil. With queasiness or delight, he doesn’t know. Maybe both.

There’s already blood on the demon, indication that there had been a scuffle during his capture. It’s quite different, the knowledge that it’s Alastair’s own blood that stains him now; not Dean’s, not anyone else’s. And it excites him, because here is his tormenter, bound and vulnerable, ready to _bleed_. Bleed like a helpless lamb about to be slaughtered by Dean’s hands. Excitement wars with the fear of bathing in blood out of sheer enjoyment once again.

The mere thought clouds over everything else in his mind that he almost forgets what he came here for.

“I ain’t here for a beer and catching up,” he says as he moves to the side of the cart, right hand sliding over the tools at his disposal.

Alastair looks positively ecstatic now. “Well, I know that, hm, _practising_ is as good as ‘catching up’ in our world. Don’t want to fall behind, do we.”

Ignoring the words, Dean takes in what he sees, from the chains that chafe the arms to the bloody grin that twists the face into something hideous. “Who’s killing the angels, Alastair?”

“Oh, is that what’s happening? I hope they go extinct soon; it’s about time,” Alastair says cheerfully, blood mixed with saliva bubbling out of a corner of his mouth.

He thinks that the timing couldn’t have been better: Cap and Barnes gone, Sammy safe with Bobby. This is a secret between him, heaven, and hell.

A syringe filled with holy water is his first choice, because fire under your skin is a good shock to the system. And it makes you want to claw off your own flesh.

At last, a smile spreads his lips. He feels so empty.

“I hope you won’t make this easy,” Dean says as he approaches, stopping close enough to see every wrinkle that lines the unknown man’s face, but keeping his distance in case Alastair decides to take a chunk out of his nose.

“Anything for you, my dear student. Make me proud.” Alastair doesn’t blink, doesn’t even glance at the syringe he’s holding.

That doesn’t make it any less satisfying when a pained gurgle bursts from his lips.

 

\- - - - -

 

_In another life, perhaps Dean might have said no. The darkness, the silence, the void might have become his home, and he might have chosen to stay alone. After all, that was what he deserved._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how people write those 5k-word chapters because I can barely come up with something over a thousand words.
> 
> WARNING: for more graphic torture, because Dean gets pretty dark

He loves it and hates it.

The moans and screams are music to his ears, the noise of his nightmares.

Pieces of flesh hang off his fingers as he carves it off the left arm, ready to be fed to its owner.

Dean is so fucked up it’s not even funny.

A storm is what this is, forty years’ worth of repressed memories and experiences rushing through him and drowning who he is supposed to be, reminding him of what he has become.

Because this. This is hell on earth in the best of ways.

“I like my meat well done, chef,” is what Alastair spits out along with more blood.

Dean can’t help but smile, amused. “I don’t think you’re hungry enough yet,” he says as he rubs more salt into the open wounds as if he is actually seasoning it.

Alastair throws his head back and groans around gritted teeth. He seems to be enjoying it, shaking off the pain with a growl. “Your butchering needs more work,” he remarks, grinning.

Another slice, then another. His fingers are getting heavy. He washes off the excess blood with some holy water and watches the flesh sizzle. A grunt.

“This isn’t quite whetting my appetite; I’m starting to get a little... _disappointed_.”

He really needs to shut up. A needle dipped in salted holy water gets stabbed into the right eye.

“Ouch! Oh, oh, oh... that wasn’t very nice,” Alastair whines, more to annoy Dean than complain.

“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Dean says, then wrenches the jaw open wide enough to hear a crack.

It only makes Alastair laugh.

Dean’s starting to get frustrated. He’s not aware how much time has passed, but the demon has been bleeding for a while. At least half the salt and water are gone and more than five tools have tasted blood at this point.

Why are there so many limits? He feels like he can go on and on and on but his body is telling him otherwise, worn down from the day. The angels are impatiently waiting outside, wanting a name. They’re all sources of pressure that he neither wants nor needs; he should be _enjoying_ himself.

Maybe he should take a nap, bore Alastair into giving up what he knows.

His eyes follow the movements of his hands, mind passively noticing that they haven’t stopped once during his assessment of the situation. Autopilot, huh.

He can see the bone, now.

 

\- - - - -

 

At one point, Dean stops everything. Asks for a cup of coffee. Uriel eyes his bloodied state distastefully but doesn’t take him up on the offer to have a go instead.

Turns out he has only been at it for an hour or so.

It tastes like shit and good thing he’s used to all manners of terrible coffee. Figures angels wouldn’t know what good coffee is.

He gives some to Alastair who also seems to be falling asleep. Cooled down especially with holy water and flavoured with salt so it would go down easy and wake him up some.

Guy gets real talkative after that, although about nothing relevant.

“If I were to count the number of souls that broke before we touched a single piece of it, I would need, oh, a lot of hands. And I mean a lot.”

“What’s so good about feathery wings, anyway? Imagine all the maintenance, keeping them clean and shiny, not to mention the mess they have to deal with after molting. Angels, I tell you.”

“I never liked the little mongrels—you know, the ones that ripped you to shreds and dragged you to our humble abode—stupid things, they are. Mindless carnage. I don’t mind something chaotic every now and then, but they have no finesse, no class. So, hm, _uncultured_.”

“I’d say that my favourite moment with you was when you desperately clung to me like I was your saviour, begging me not to leave you alone.”

And then Dean starts carving into the other arm.

 

\- - - - -

 

“Wonder what ol’ John Winchester would’ve been like.”

Dean replies by pinning one of his feet with a dagger.

Unlike in hell where the five senses had only been as sensitive as one’s soul perceived them to be, the scent and sight of blood starts to wear on Dean. Even this body is as weak and pitiful as the rest of him.

“He was strong, you know. I’m sure you do, since you were daddy’s good little soldier. Always in his shadow,” Alastair continues, then promptly chokes on his words when Dean twists the blade.

Yet he goes on. “I would have liked to know how many more years it might’ve taken for him to break, but then he flew away. Unfortunate, really! That’s why we had to get...”

He waits until Dean stands again and faces him. Alastair rolls his head, grinning at a joke that only he understands. That neck is just asking to get snapped.

“You, Dean. Broke like glass. Shattered. Started it all.”

Something in Dean goes cold, and he stills.

“Oh, you were _such_ a letdown! Just couldn’t hold on; not for your daddy, not for little Samuel. Not for the _world_.”

“The hell are you talking about, you bastard?” Dean asks, belatedly registering the words.

“It’s not everyday we make an offer to a condemned soul. But you and your daddy were special, destined to bring hell on earth. Of course, it did happen under our brilliant orchestration but nonetheless, I thought you would have lasted longer.”

Dean’s head is spinning now, confused and _the damn demon can’t be implying what Dean thinks he is._ “What...?”

“You spilled that first blood, Dean, and broke the first seal.”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Dean grits out, too desperate, not enough anger.

“ _'And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.'_ ”

And then everything shuts down because he can’t believe what he’s hearing, yet he can. Someone like Alastair will tell the absolute truth if it causes the most damage.

“If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be up here preparing for what’s to come. And then. And _then_ when the world is surrounded by seas of flame, the cries of humanity for mercy become the songs of our kind... we’ll make sure to give credit where credit is due.”

Alastair’s eyes have rolled back, and in that milky white gleam Dean can see more than he ever wants to, itches to scrape it out before it chases him into his nightmares.

He has to turn away, and it’s showing more weakness but Dean needs a breath of air that isn’t blood and sulfur. Distances himself from the rack, passes the cart. He sees the door, thinks of the fucking angels who aren’t doing shit, who let him start the fucking _apocalypse_. He blinks shocked tears that he didn’t notice out of his eyes, trembling hands folding into tight fists that cut into his palms.

And all of a sudden, Cap is at the door. A face that he never thought he would see again in the small window that is his only connection to the outside.

Cap.

How?

The man’s eyes are wide, expression one of horror. Dean can feel his gaze roaming over all the blood on him, the demon knife in his hand.

Dean thinks he might be sick. Looks like Cap might be, too.

Then Barnes is there, shoving Cap over and getting an eyeful as well.

Fuck, _fuck_. Someone up there really hates Dean, or he’s so shocked that he’s hallucinating right now.

Everything, the room, Alastair, the carnage fades away. Drowned out by the sheer misery Dean feels welling up from deep within. Because no one was supposed to know. No one except the winged bastards who pulled him out to begin with and the ones down below where it had all started.

Not this, this darkness in him. All the filthiness that makes him less than human. Oh God, what would Sam think?

Barnes turns away from the hideous sight he makes, yells something to someone behind him. Probably to take him down because he’s gone mad.

The next moment, there’s nothing. The faces have disappeared, makes Dean think that he was seeing things, after all. He can’t hear Alastair, taunts quieted down. Only the sound of his breathing remains.

And the steady drip of water. Tapping away at the ground.

Did he spill something?

Then he smells sulfur, almost suffocating in its closeness.

He can’t turn around because a hand grips the back of his head, holding him in place with impossible strength.

“Tsk, tsk,” Alastair chides, _breathes_ into his ear. “You never turn your back to your enemies, my little bird, not even if you’re well-acquainted.”

He can’t scream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Severely depressed Dean in this chapter.

Dean needs to wake up _right now_ because everything is just wrong, wrong, wrong. How did it get this bad so quickly?

Not a minute ago, he had instinctively stabbed the demon knife into whatever part of Alastair had been closest and that had distracted the demon long enough for Dean to break for it and immediately start pounding against the door.

The door won’t open.

His shoulder is nearly wrenched out of its socket from the force Alastair uses to pull him back, and fear clogs his throat, wipes his mind blank. His body automatically starts punching and kicking at his captor and it does nothing to prevent him from being dragged away from his only escape. If he can even escape anymore.

“Don’t—” he chokes out.

“Shhh, shhh; it’s my turn, now.”

Pain explodes on the side of his face and it’s amazing how thoroughly it stuns him and everything seems to rattle around in his skull. His cheek feels broken, and Dean has to let out a cough to release the breath caught in his throat.

“That was for your impudence, though I will admit that you _tried_.” Another jarring impact. “One more for disappointing me; I taught you better than that.”

Dean can’t hear anything other than screaming inside his own head from the immense pain he didn’t expect. Alastair continues to talk while he takes his joy in crushing Dean, and the sheer strength behind each fist overwhelms him. He can’t tell apart the blood from the tears that are running down his face. Miraculously, he’s still conscious.

What truly immobilizes him, however, is not the agony steadily spreading throughout his body nor being overpowered by Alastair.

It’s that he’s alone. And no one will come for him.

They saw him and left, had every right to do so.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair croons, having stopped his assault for the moment. “You know there isn’t a place for you here. You know where you belong.” The hand gripping Dean’s hair gives a shake, causing him to hiss.

With what little strength he has, Dean spits a broken tooth that had been rolling around in his mouth right where Alastair’s face is too close to his. It bounces off harmlessly. He gets a mocking laugh for the attempt, and his hair is released. Before Dean can crumble to the floor, the hand returns to squeeze his neck and drag him by it across the room like a rag doll. It’s a fitting description for what he has become: a puppet on strings, ready to move for whoever is holding the controller.

Everyone but himself.

It’s getting hard to breathe, every bit of distance he’s pulled like a step towards the end. And then he’s being lifted up, higher and higher until his feet can no longer touch the ground. The metal of the rack Alastair had been chained against mere _minutes_ ago is cold and hard against his aching body, and Dean just wants it all to stop now. But the master is the one holding him, and the demon knows the fine balance of allowing just enough oxygen for someone to remain in the state of consciousness right before passing out.

His senses are heightened and numb at the same time, and everything in him feels like lead.

“I’m not very much enjoying this, this _physicality_ we’re trapped in. Limits too much potential. Look at yourself,” Alastair says calmly before slamming Dean against the rack.

Dean can only groan weakly, shake uncontrollably. _Please_ , he thinks, _please_.

Something hard and sharp pokes at what he now realises is his bare chest, his shirt having been cut away. Pokes insistently where his tattoo is.

The knife slices through it and Dean can’t help but flail in panic.

“See, Dean? This protection is only as strong as your flesh. That is to say, not very.”

Too close. Cold. Hurts. _Why is Dean still breathing fuck._

“I know you want to do better,” Alastair continues, sickly sweet. “And I’m willing to give you a second chance. New lesson plans, more study hours. Because I’m a good teacher, Dean. I’m good to you.”

The door slams open, most likely due to Alastair focusing more on Dean than keeping it closed, and he hears rushed footsteps, someone—more than one—calling his name. And Alastair’s hold does not loosen even a fraction.

“Quite the crowd we’ve gathered. I suppose I can save the rest for when you’re back downstairs,” the demon says loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Time to give them a show.”

Instead of killing him like he expected, Alastair opens his mouth and Dean watches in horror through blurry eyes the black smoke that rises.

“No, no, no—” Dean mouths uselessly.

It flies towards him and forces his mouth open. And then...

Light.

Dark.

Nothing.

 

\- - - - -

 

The night Dean wakes up again and sees the sterile hospital room, he wishes he never did.

There is a warmth on his ankle when he slowly regains consciousness, the pain a dull throbbing and mind fuzzy. As soon as he registers the hand, he wants to cringe away.

He shouldn’t goddamn be here.

And sure enough, Dean sees Cap bent over with arms and head on the bed in a familiar pose, sleeping. Sam is folded up into the chair by his head. A roll of the head to the other side reveals Barnes in a similar state.

Castiel stands next to him.

Neither say anything for a while, simply letting the hum of the machines fill the room along with the light snores of the two sleeping persons. Castiel does not look away from Dean once, while Dean avoids making any eye contact.

He can’t think about anything. Doesn’t want to. Not about how he’s currently bed-ridden, not about what happened after he lost consciousness. Most definitely not about how he’s trapped here with the three people he never wants to see again after having revealed everything of himself that is wrong and dirty and bad. The absolute worse of himself.

It takes a while for Dean to start talking. “This probably wasn’t the outcome you were hoping for when you let me into the room,” is the first thing he says. His throat fucking hurts.

“No,” Castiel replies after a minute. “Alastair should not have been able to break free.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, shit happens all the friggin’ time. Guess angels are no exception to that. Thanks for the trip to the hospital, by the way.”

Cas doesn’t respond to his jab, the cold bastard. “Why are these men here?” he asks instead.

That’s something Dean hopes he’ll never know the answer to, either because they’ll be gone before the next time he wakes up or Alastair will come to finish what he had started. He shrugs, pointedly not looking at the men Cas is referring to.

“What exactly happened after I...”

“Alastair tried to possess you, but backfired due to what grace of mine remained after I had rebuilt your body. The failure stunned him momentarily and these—acquaintances of yours detained him long enough for your brother to get a hold of him. He was killed by Sam’s powers.”

“What...” Dean finally looks at Castiel, disbelieving. “What do you mean ‘Sam’s powers’? And, and why the hell would you let civilians get involved in such a dangerous fight? How the fuck did Sam kill Alastair!” The last words are whispered harshly, mindful of the others in the room.

“He has found the means to make further use of the demon blood, somehow. I am not certain what that might be.”

Dean has to swallow a couple times, too exhausted to feel any stronger emotions. Fucking Ruby, though. He knows she has something to do with it.

Minutes pass in silence, Castiel staring contemplatively at a random point on the opposite wall, and the thought that had been bothering Dean since it had been mentioned makes its way to the forefront of his mind, ready to be verbalised. The thing is, though, he’s a bit scared to ask. Terrified of what the answer may be. But...

“Alastair—” a deep breath, “Alastair told me something. About the first seal.”

Castiel’s eyes are back on Dean, blue eerily luminescent. Dean forces himself to continue.

“Did I... Was it really me? Tortured a soul and broke the first seal?”

The angel doesn’t even pause. “Yes.”

God, wow. No, no God. There is no God. Dean has to hold back a sound of anguish, crushed by the guilt and despair that sits heavily on his chest at the confirmation.

“As soon as we knew of Lilith’s plan, we fought to save you—”

The rest of Castiel’s words become background noise, because Dean is shattering inside and he thought he was a fuck-up before everything but this is a blunder on a whole new level. He doomed the world to destruction.

“Why the hell didn’t you _leave_ me there,” Dean cuts in abruptly, heart pounding, tears in his eyes.

It would have been better, knowing what he does now, to spend the rest of eternity atoning for his sins. Offered up on the rack for the poor souls that would be lost during the apocalypse.

Castiel watches him steadily, surprisingly without any disgust or judgment. “This was meant to happen, Dean; it was not your fault. And there is hope.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit—”

“The Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can finish it.”

“You call that hope, Cas?” Dean’s voice cracks, and he can no longer hold the tears back. “What’s that supposed to mean? How?”

“I don’t know, but you are fated to stop it.”

This honestly can’t get any worse by any human standards, but nothing about this is human anymore. They expect him to stop the end of the world when he can’t even stop the tears from how hopeless and wretched he feels.

“We’re gonna burn, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean sniffs. “The Righteous Man wouldn’t be here broken to pieces after playing torture with a demon. You guys picked the wrong guy.”

Dean turns away to escape into sleep, completely drained, and hopes he doesn’t make it through the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm getting the hang of writing longer scenes. This chapter was quite difficult and I fear how I will fare because it will only get worse from here. Thank you for your patience!

Revelations are crappy things because Dean wakes up from a dream about how this all began in the first place. The image of his little brother lying dead on a dirty cot while Dean sat next to his body wishing desperately for him to start breathing again is extremely vivid in his mind’s eyes as he blinks the sleep and unshed tears away.

It’s much brighter in the room, so Dean assumes it’s sometime in the day now. Castiel is no longer here.

“Dean.”

It’s Sam and only Sam in the room, Dean notices. Disheveled and haggard-looking yet a profound kind of relief fills his face when Dean sees him, and it’s then that Sam smiles tentatively.

“How you feeling?” he asks.

Complicated, Dean wants to say. And thank whatever that you’re alive. But Dean also wants to tell him not to look, knows what Sam saw: the hideous part of him he only described in words and was never supposed to actually be _shown_.

“You’ve been out for a couple days,” Sam says in the absence of a reply from him, and lifts a hand as if to hold onto some part of Dean. Stops short of actually touching him.

Dean thinks and makes a decision. He turns the hand closer to Sam so that the palm is up in a clear invitation, and Sam clasps it with a desperate kind of strength. If Dean were up and not horribly in pain, he guesses that Sam would have crushed him with a hug. Dean just stares at their hands for a bit, then looks at Sam’s face.

He remembers what Cas had told him the night before (if today is indeed the day after), and God, Dean really can’t imagine that this baby brother of his is going out of control with demonic power and it stabs painfully at his heart because Sam is sitting right here with such an earnest expression like he’s so friggin’ happy to be by his bedside. What in the world has happened to them?

“Sam...” Dean croaks after a couple tries.

Sam suddenly blinks wide. “Oh, you must be thirsty—gimme a sec.” He gets up and fetches a cup of water with a piece of tissue over it that had been sitting on a small drawer in the corner, then makes sure Dean drinks it slowly so as not to choke on it.

It’s about that time Cap and Barnes barge (from Dean’s perspective) into the room and cause him to choke on the water anyway. Like his throat needed anymore damn stress, Christ.

“Dean!”

“Oh, crap...”

“Oops.”

All three of them speak at once and surround him, helping him sit up so he can breathe easier. Dean bites back a whimper when his head gets jostled too hard in the process.

“Sheesh, some hunter you are,” Sam teases as soon as the coughing dies down, and Dean can’t say anything back because the stupid kid looks like he’s about to cry. It doesn’t mean Dean spares him from a punch to the shoulder though, and it’s as much to reassure him as it is to retaliate.

And then he finally turns to face what he has been dreading since that horrible night in the warehouse.

Cap has his concerned face on, a light frown with stern eyes, and Barnes looks as stoic as ever. None of the rejection that Dean had subjected them to is visible, and he’s not sure if he’s glad or bemused about that. From what he can see, they appear to be the same people who had driven away from the motel lot a few days ago, except Dean can sense something heavier in their gaze. He has a pretty good idea as to why that might be.

For some time, no one says anything to the point that Sam starts fidgeting in his too small chair, then excuses himself to get a cup of black sludge that is hospital coffee.

The atmosphere remains non-vocal, and Dean feels trapped.

But the other two... somehow they figured out how to play the waiting game. All composed and shit like they have nothing better to do than sit in hospital chairs and stare at the bed’s occupant.

Another two minutes go by before Dean breaks.

“So. You missed this handsome face already?” he jokes weakly, but neither respond with any sort of amusement and it falls quiet again.

But it doesn’t last long because Cap eventually takes pity on him. “How are you feeling?” he asks too seriously; serious eyes, serious face and all.

“Peachy,” Dean replies, because he doesn’t think that it’s okay to lie to their face and say he’s fine right now. So sarcasm it is. “Can I get some more water?”

This time it’s Barnes who responds: takes the partially crushed cup from Dean’s hand and returns it filled.

Dean mutters a thanks and sips the water slowly, trying to delay the inevitable; the water disappears too quickly for his liking, though. Fidgeting with the cup gets old fast and so does feeling like an asshole, especially in front of these two. He looks up at them.

Sighing, Dean asks, “What are you doing here?” _You left_ , he doesn’t say.

“Thought we’d let you know that we don’t care much for your one-sided decisions,” Barnes says.

“What he means,” Cap explains patiently, “is that you’ve tried to push us away based on a decision that you alone made which has resulted in some unfortunate consequences and for the foreseeable future, we highly recommend that you include us in such important discussions. Understand?”

A beat in which Dean does not process much. Then, “Sorry, what?”

“Jesus, Steve,” Barnes sighs.

“I don’t get it,” because Dean honestly doesn’t. “Did you not see what happened? I’m not some normal person you can associate with and expect good things to come out of it. I’m not even human because they made a beast out of me and you don’t want to get anywhere near—” Dean stops, takes a breath, looks each of them in the eye. “There’s something big going on here, okay? And they need me to do things or else it could all be over. And—and I can’t let that happen. This mission? Civilians not included.”

“You keep saying ‘they’,” Cap starts slowly. “Who are ‘they’?”

“That’s none of your business,” and Dean glares for emphasis, because these two are a lot more stubborn than he had first thought and he really wants them away from all this. Their faces though, not a single bit of relenting. God, he doesn’t have the energy to fight a long battle.

“Am I not human, then?”

The question comes from Barnes, and it makes Dean shoot a confused glare at him.

“’Course you are,” he answers.

“There were people who wanted me to do things. Kill people. Called it a mission.”

Cap turns to him, too. Doesn’t say anything, just watches the man with sad eyes.

“That’s—that’s different,” Dean says, “They brainwashed you; you had no choice.”

“And you did?” Barnes counters, eyes challenging.

“I did,” Dean says, fiercely enough that both Cap and Barnes are surprised. His hands clench the sheets over his lap, knuckles steadily growing whiter. Yeah, it had been a hundred percent his choice and one he will regret long past his dying breath.

Frowning, eyes alight with something Dean still can’t distinguish, Cap leans forward on his seat. “A rock and a hard place isn’t a choice, Dean.”

A strange thing to assume, Dean thinks, since he hadn’t mentioned even once what his choices had been. Nonetheless... “They weren’t—” Dean shakes his head, then lies back because he’s having trouble holding himself up now. He’s determined to say no more on the subject, and turns away from them like the coward he is. He’ll say goodbye properly to them later.

A moment passes, then he hears a sigh.

“We heard you, Dean. You and Castiel.”

Dean’s eyes snap open—he hadn’t even noticed that they were closed— and his body tenses in shock. The inside of his chest hollows out and his stomach simply drops and he can’t believe that they heard about how he failed everyone and everything _fuck_. He’s trembling slightly when he faces them again.

He stares disbelievingly at each man in turn, mouth open but no sounds coming forth. They return his stare calmly like they just didn’t drop a bomb that’s leaving Dean completely sick and disoriented. Then he gets angry.

“You, you can’t just fucking eavesdrop—yeah, so what? What did you hear, huh? That didn’t mean anything. You don’t get it!” he spits, wracking his brain furiously trying to recall if he had said too much that night.

“I get that someone thought themselves entitled to put you in dangerous and unwanted situations for their own agenda,” Cap returns, seemingly angry as well. “More than once, from what I gathered.”

“Like I said, it’s none of your goddamn business—” 

“We’re not here just to visit,” Barnes interrupts. “We aren’t leaving.”

If Dean had the energy, he would have thrown his hands in the air just then in frustration, also to distract himself from the uncomfortable twisting of his heart at hearing about their desire to stay. They must think that that one incident with Alastair was all that he has ever done, when he had actually spent a whole decade carving into others for his own enjoyment.

There’s too much for him to deal with; his eyes close once more, drained.

“You must be tired; I apologise,” Cap says quietly after a moment, followed by the creaking of chairs as they both get up.

Footsteps thump lightly across the floor, a door slides open, but there’s no sound of leaving.

“Go,” Dean finally says and the words scrape his throat, just like how everything right now scrapes him raw. “Just go. Please.”

The door closes.


	5. Chapter 5

Lesson of the day: the number of people in a car is correlated with the amount of tension confined within the space.

Dean is sulking spectacularly in the shotgun seat of the Impala because he’s in too delicate of a state to drive, and he had conceded grudgingly if it meant getting out of the hospital. His brother drives, ignoring the sulky aura given off by Dean. Sam also ignores the sulky aura coming off of the two new passengers in the back, which is quite the feat because all of their sulkiness is mingling together and choking out all the breathable air.

At least Dean is man enough to admit that he’s sulking. The men in the back had not been impressed when Sam had partially explained (against Dean’s wishes!) what they’re up against; yet, they had stubbornly followed and sat themselves in the car much to Dean’s dismay and have been brooding in silence ever since. 

( _”You would think it’d be in everyone’s best interest to know that the world just might end soon,” Cap says with the patience of someone who is about to punch something. “How is_ that _not any of our business?”_

_Barnes just glares a whole lot._

_“You guys are just—” Dean starts._

_“If you say ‘civilian’ one more time,” Barnes growls softly, “you will soon find out where this metal arm plans to go.”_

_Dean shuts up._ )

And then he’s startled rudely out of his thoughts by twin yelps of surprise, the Impala suddenly swerving, twin sounds of solid impact, and a hiss of pain.

“Damn it, Sam! Watch my Baby!” Dean scolds when the car stabilizes before turning around to see what the commotion is. “Damn it, Cas!”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel calmly greets from between a bewildered Cap who is cradling his hand and a dumbfounded Barnes. The calm is only in his voice, though, and Dean can see the strain in the angel’s face from trying to keep it neutral.

“What’s up?”

Something slumps in Castiel and it’s such a strange picture the three in the back create that Dean almost wants to laugh. The other two are still staring warily at the newest passenger, pressed against the doors, but no more fists are at the ready to be launched so at least that’s a good thing.

“Uriel is dead.”

It’s Dean’s turn to be wary, and he exchanges a brief glance with Sam. “Oh. Uh, the demons again?”

“Betrayal,” Castiel says solemnly, “and disobedience. He was the one responsible for the deaths of our brothers and sisters.”

“And here I thought you guys were the most trustworthy of the bunch,” Dean shrugs. The comment earns him a glare from Castiel and a smack on the shoulder by Sam. “Hey, hey, recovering patient here!”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a jerk,” Sam sighs.

“Bitch.”

“What’s going on?” Cap’s voice breaks through the bickering.

Another glance at Sam and Dean turns away, leaving all the explanations to the little brother. He knows he’s being a petty ass, but he can’t help it.

Sam sighs again, this one with ten times the annoyance infused into the short breath. “This man who teleports out of nowhere—”

“I am no man,” Castiel interrupts, somewhat testily in Dean’s opinion. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

“—is Castiel.”

Barnes looks highly sceptical when Dean discreetly checks the mirror. “An actual angel?”

“Believe it or not,” Dean mutters.

“Cas, these two are Captain America and Sergeant James Barnes,” Sam introduces persistently.

“We’re meeting under unfortunate circumstances, it seems,” Cap offers a hand which Castiel doesn’t take, so he puts it back down like it’s nothing. “You’re helping us stop the apocalypse, then?”

“It is our order to stop the demons, yes.”

“Great, looking forward to working together.”

Oh my God, Dean thinks, they’re making friends. “Is there something else you wanted, Cas?”

The guy is squinting at Cap when Dean twists back around, like he’s confused by what specimen he is. Funny, because Dean pretty much had been in awe of Cap too when he had first seen him. Couldn’t believe someone like him actually existed. Why was he even here again?

“There is a seal—” 

Dean rolls his eyes. Of course it’s about a seal.

“—in Hays, Kansas, and demonic activity near its location. We are stopping them from making further progress at the moment, so you may head over and prevent the murdering of the brothers.”

“More angels?” Sam inquires.

“No, the descendants of Cain and Abel.”

“Whoa, what?” Dean looks at Castiel sharply, paying no mind to the spectators who have clearly lost track of the conversation. “Aren’t those guys from like, the beginning of humanity? There has got to be thousands of them out there!”

“Yes, but there will only be one child attempting to murder the other in this city if the time comes.”

“Christ,” Dean breathes, dragging a hand over his face. “We’re dealing with kids. The parents definitely won’t freak out, not at all.”

“Someone mind explaining this in layman’s terms?” Barnes speaks up suddenly. “Why are kids going to kill each other?”

“You must hurry,” is all the stupid angel says before disappearing just as abruptly as he had appeared. His exit doesn’t startle anyone too much, thankfully.

“Interesting friend you have,” Cap comments after a moment, but his face is full of questions and concerns.

“What are we doing?” Barnes presses.

Sighing, Dean faces forward, starts tapping a beat with his fingers against his thigh. Things are moving quickly and he and Sam have to get back on track with very little time to spare on their civilian buddies (he may be forbidden from saying it out loud, but he has all the freedom in his head, ha). They won’t be able to stay away which is exactly what Dean had been fearing. It’s a contrast between his heart and head, because logically he knows that they’re more than capable of handling fights, probably more well-versed in actual battle than him or Sam.

An unexpected pinch to the ear causes him to yelp and he hears Sam snicker. He glares at his brother, then the perpetrator who is calmly waiting for an answer to his question as if he didn’t do anything wrong.

“Keep your hands to yourself, why don’t ya,” Dean snarls.

All he gets is an impatient stare.

Dean barely holds back from rolling his eyes again and shifts in his seat to get comfortable. A voice in the back of his head that tells him how comfortable he already is with being caught up in their pace gets firmly ignored.

“Fine. So you already know that the seals are keeping the big bad devil in the box, and that it’s up to us and the winged dicks—” and Sam sighs as if it’s his life’s mission, “—to stop them from breaking. So far, a lot of these seals have involved someone or something dying in order for it to break.”

“And this one happens to be children,” Cap says, and it’s all anger and sadness and worry.

It’s unfortunate, and no one has much else to say about it.

“The information from Cas was really vague,” Sam notes.

Dean nods. “Yeah, we’ll have to split up. I’m sure he’ll narrow it down for us by the time we get there.”

Cap and Barnes both have super human senses so that will definitely be an advantage in covering whatever areas they need to. He also bets that by default of simply being themselves people will listen to their requests respectfully.

And he belatedly realises that he’s making plans as if they’re naturally part of this team. His chest constricts, foolishly pleased but far more conflicted. 

Something must show on his face because Sam eyes him strangely as he shuffles and settles properly in his seat, rolls the window down to let the wind distract him. He starts humming the tune of a Metallica song obnoxiously so that obnoxious little brothers can stop giving him funny looks.

A look over his shoulder shows the two men sitting closer together than they had previously, whispering to one another _very_ seriously and Dean finds himself smirking at the sight. He thinks they could fit there, fill the empty backseat as they drive down road after road, hunting monsters.

It’s a dumb idea that he refuses to cling onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to figure out pacing, though I'm sure it'll come with a lot more practice. I hope this isn't going too slow even though I feel the slowness myself, haha.
> 
> Also.
> 
> Angel: 1  
> Super Soldiers: 0


End file.
